Seasons Poem by Brook Renwick

Summer heat is beating me down to the ground.
The radiation of the sun melting my skin.
Winter chill is not really that chilly between sunrise and sunset.
I look forward to the fresh air as it feels clean to breath.
Autumn and spring are the seasons of transformation.
The rivers die away after the monsoons or flora is born in spring.
I get things done without a winge each day when
the mild sun and the clean, fresh air fill my happier day.